


Break This Rusty Cage

by Indybaggins



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual, Prison, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Chip is a weary guard who has seen too much, and Jeff is too beautiful for prison...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break This Rusty Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: “Chip/Jeff; It's good you don't want forever, because you know I cannot give it to you.”

 

Chip walks the deserted grey-and-blue hallway of the infirmary and fingers the baton hanging off his belt in a nervous habit. He doesn’t feel safe here, still, even though it’s been two years since he’s been attacked. Back then a prisoner had been stalking the halls for god knows what reason. Now he is here alone, and his skin breaks out in cold sweat. He will be attacked again, he knows. Maybe not in this hallway. Maybe not tonight. But at one point, he will. 

With his black-and-blue prison guard uniform he would have safely blended into the shadows, could have moved without a sound if not for the soft static grumble of his radio, the shrill sound of keys slamming his belt at every tired step. His feet are aching in his black, standard-issue boots. He knows not to betray it, the tiredness creeping over his back and dragging his shoulders down. They can sense weakness. But he’s already an hour late, his twelve-hour shift stretched into thirteen because there was a fight in the cafeteria earlier, and he has missed the kid’s bedtime for the fifth night in a row. He feels worn and old. He pauses for a moment, lets his weight lean on the heavy doors while he unlocks them, and then he is outside. There are fifty-three steps of prison yard between the infirmary door and the beginning of block C and it’s dark out but the air is sharp, fresh when he greedily sucks it into his lungs. The gravel crisps beneath his boots. Big Mike in the guard tower waves at him, and he waves back. One of the guard dogs near the check point barks. He feels too tired. His mouth is dry, sticking with a trace of that godawful coffee that is on day and night in the guards post. He doesn’t even like coffee, but drinks it anyway, to keep his hands busy, to keep them from shaking. 

One more heavy rattling door and he leaves the crisp night air for the sour smell of Block C. Too many men in too small a space. Like an unwelcome, sickly breath he has no choice but to breathe in. The sharp scent of urine, sweat, despair in never aired-out hallways, it sticks to his skin even when he comes home at night. Even after he showers and scrubs, scrubs until his skin is pink and tender, he can still smell it. It soaks into his soul and never leaves. 

Most of the prisoners are sleeping at this moment, but the hall is well-lit anyway. The flickering and humming neon lights overhead are reminding him he’s had a headache for most of the day already, and so is the screaming. Always screaming. Men singing, cursing, yelling to hear the sound of their own voice, to remind themselves that they are still alive. Day or night, it never stops. 

Brad looks up when Chip walks by his guards post. “Shift over, huh?” He asks. His feet are lying crossed over the table. His eyes, until a moment ago, were trained on the dozen or so little TV screens. Some people are fighting in the rec room, Chip can tell. They’re holding one person down and there is blood. Brad should be doing something. Chip looks away. “Yeah, almost.” 

“One more visit?” Brad asks, and even though he looks pale he is leering, his smile broad and greasy. He is clutching a coffee cup, just like Chip does most of the day. The coffee looks cold. 

“Yeah.” Chip says simply, and Brad buzzes him past the doors without further comment. 

He walks up to cell seventeen with the knowledge that Brad has already stopped caring about him. Brad has stopped caring the day two prisoners dragged him into a cell and nearly kicked him to death, Chip knows. But still he has to stop himself from looking at the camera over his shoulder. He shivers. He separates the key from the dozens he has hanging near his belt, and opens the cold, metal door. 

Jeff is sitting on his bed, looking at him. He had been reading a book, Chip sees, but has put it aside easily. He has let him wait for over an hour too, he knows. He doesn’t apologize. There are four beds in the cell, but Jeff’s cellmates aren’t there. They never are, he doesn’t even know who they are. They get extra rec time in return for this, Jeff gets extra standing for this, he is doing Jeff a favor, Chip reminds himself. A huge favor. 

Jeff sits still, back straight, but he isn’t trying to get away. Good. The first few times Chip had to handcuff him to the bed to get him to cooperate. He hadn’t understood it yet, then. 

He looks at Jeff, the thin arms, (sensitive flesh scarred near the veins on both sides, mottled spots of blue and green, souvenirs from repeated drug use). A junkie. He has slight stubble on his cheeks, and a black shock of hair. There are dark shadows under his eyes. Chip can see the outline of his ribs through the bright orange prison shirt, and Jeff’s clear eyes look back at him knowingly. Chip swallows. The man’s too beautiful for prison, he’d always known that. 

“How are you?” Chip asks. It comes out too quiet, a little heartfelt even, but he doesn’t care. 

Jeff smiles softly at him. “It’s good to see you sir.”

Chip knows that that’s a lie. Jeff would be perfectly happy to never see him again. 

Some days he likes being called sir. Some days the aggression sits easy beneath his skin. Some days it doesn’t take much out of him to do this, to enjoy this. Today it does. 

He sinks down on the bed next to Jeff, and Jeff doesn’t flinch. ‘He trusts me,’ Chip thinks as he always does, with something akin to surprise. He lets his head fall back against the wall and sighs. “I’m tired,” he admits. 

Jeff says nothing, but his hands sneak on to Chips shoulders, and start kneading there. It feels good and Chip vaguely wishes he could take off his shirt, hand Jeff some oil and simply ask for a massage until it no longer feels as if his shoulders are riddled with knife-cuts (they are, the scars two years old now, white and unimpressive). He sighs again. 

Jeff asks, warmly, next to his ear, “Would you like me to…” and Chip, with a moment of regret, because no, he doesn’t need him to, says “yes.”

Jeff glides down to his knees and Chip takes the baton, the radio and his keys off his belt and puts them all neatly on a chair nearby. Then he opens his belt, zipper and lowers his pants. They have done this so many times already that it has become routine. The prison issue blanket feels rough under his bare ass cheeks, and even that is a familiar feeling, an often-replayed memory. His dick is completely limp, a warm weight lying on his thigh and Jeff uses his hand to guide it towards his mouth. He sucks and licks softly at first, he knows Chip doesn’t like too much to begin with. For a while Chip honestly doubts he can get it up, his whole body is radiating exhaustion, but then he does feel his flesh stir in Jeff’s mouth. Jeff is much better at this than his wife is. Jeff makes no sound, just the sloppy, wet slide of his tongue. Chip strokes his hands through Jeff’s short black hair and pulls him closer, leads his head near his stomach and curls up around it. Jeff lets him, and uses his fingers to account for the changed position. The light is too harsh, even in this cell, so Chip closes his eyes for a bit. He feels the warmth of Jeff’s head in the hollow of his belly and the crinkle of his hair under his fingers, neck a little moist as if he’s sweating from the effort.

After a while his eyes drift open again and he stares at the side of Jeff’s face, so close to his groin. Jeff’s eyes are closed, his forehead scrunched up in concentration. He is amazing at this. So beautiful. If he hadn’t taken Jeff as his own he would have been killed by now, Chip thinks. They would have fought over that pretty mouth like animals. 

His dick has swollen so much that Jeff can’t take it all into his mouth anymore, not in this position anyway. Jeff can deep throat a bit, but not completely with a dick as big as Chip’s, so Chip doesn’t expect him to. When he strokes Jeff’s cheek, fingers his sharp jaw line, Jeff looks up at him and lets his dick go with a soft plop. His mouth looks slick and red now. Chip wants to kiss him, but instead tells him, “Take of your clothes.” 

Jeff looks at him with some emotion he can’t read and complies. Sometimes he comes in for a quick blowjob. Sometimes he wants a fuck, hard and painful. On a day as today he just wants to feel skin slide beneath his. Some warmth. 

Jeff pulls his orange prison shirt over his shoulders, and then his ragged undershirt. He looks frighteningly skinny. Chip knows that he’s been using again, half the prison population is so he doesn’t remark on that, not the track marks, not the idea of needles (and sometimes he lies awake at night thinking of that. Contaminated needles. Overdoses. Going into work and finding Jeff’s corpse.) Instead he says “You’re too skinny,” and “I’ll tell Brad to make sure they feed you,” and thinks of sneaking in a Snickers bar for him, next time. Jeff seems amused, eyes softening for a second, and says “Yes mom,”, while stepping out of his pants and underwear. Chip knows that the only reason Jeff answers him like that is because he wants him to, because he stupidly enjoys the idea that they could have been friends, perhaps, in a different life. Not because Jeff genuinely likes him (because why would he?). Jeff keeps his white socks on, and Chip doesn’t remark on them. He knows the floor is cold after all. 

Chip motions Jeff to lie down on the bed besides him, and furtively checks him for bruises before he holds him, traces hands over ribs, touches his soft dick. Jeff has dark pubes, and extremely pale skin, nearly translucent near his thighs. He finds the contrast beautiful. He palms Jeff’s dick, and feels the responding rise almost immediately. He has often wondered whether Jeff had been gay on the outside, before. He thinks he must have been. He licks his palm, and continues to bring Jeff to hardness. He is pleased that it works. Jeff smiles at him lazily now, and Chip looks him in the eye while working him harder. Jeff’s breath hitches. He’s not near to coming, but enjoying it a lot anyway, Chip knows. He feels his own neglected dick pulse. He wants. 

“I want to fuck you,” he says. And he doesn’t wait for Jeff to agree. 

It’s difficult, to fuck on a small prison bunk bed with his pants hanging near his knees and his boots still on. He always wishes he could take them off, stretch out beside Jeff and relax. But he knows he can’t, he has to keep the wall between them, he has to keep the power, he has to be the guard. And he guards, for Jeff, always. He takes a condom out of his pocket, and Jeff hands him the small tube of lube they keep beneath his mattress. He never takes Jeff without a condom, he had promised him that in the beginning. And Jeff knows now, Chip is sure. He understands that if Chip hadn’t fucked him, there were others who would have fucked him harder, and more often. Without a condom, or preparation, or even without a dick, sometimes. He has seen the inmates that had been raped with the pointy end of a knife. With a chair’s foot wrapped in barbed wire. He has seen the things monsters are capable of when caged together and stirred up. He knows he has saved Jeff from a fate much, much worse by taking him. 

When he had just started working here, young and naïve, he had told the men like Jeff he could protect them. He had told them they didn’t have to be raped. That they could fight back. And then the empty eyes and blood and ruined bodies of those same men, boys sometimes, crept into his dreams and mind and he couldn’t lie any more. So now he told the inmates, the young, pretty ones, first –timers, the ones that didn’t get it yet- exactly how bad their life was going to become, to find protection. To find the ones who would hurt them the least, and offer up all they had. And eventually, one day out of the blue, he had offered his own protection to Jeff. Because he had had a sense of humor and a wonderful smile that crinkled his eyes and Chip had known all of that would get lost, get stamped out either by pain or hopelessness eventually.

So now Chip starts with a lube-coated finger and then two and opens Jeff too gently, too inexpertly for what they are. He looks at him and asks “Okay?” even though they have done this for months already. He looks at Jeff’s arms and thinks, ‘I don’t want you to die.’ And Jeff pushes himself onto Chips fingers and groans and says, “Feels good.” and, “Yes, sir.” 

And Chip asks him to turn around and spreads his legs, leads his own dick into Jeff slowly, achingly slowly while he looks at the chipped paint on the cold institutionalized walls and the worn bedsprings of the bed above them. And he starts moving and grips Jeff’s hips too hard, thumbs leaving red marks where they have been holding on. He sees Jeff’s too thin-ass and bony sides and the vulnerable white dip in his lower back. He sees his neck and wants to put his teeth there, thinks of cats mating, and then of the time some of the inmates had gotten pets from a charity. He thinks of the mangled cat corpses they found, some raped far after death into shreds and he feels nauseous. 

He stops Jeff, kisses quickly on his neck, just a brush of lips, and asks him to turn around again, puts a pillow down for him, tries to be considerate with his condom-wrapped dick jutting out proud and hands shaking and a headache that makes his brain feel like it’s whining. And he takes Jeff even more careful, as if he will break (and what if he does?). He tries to aim for his prostate, tries to wrap his hand over Jeff’s dick, tries to make it wonderful for him, to wring Jeff’s orgasm out of him and only then realizes that he is aroused himself at all. He comes as if he is in pain, like a quick too-good reflex spilling out of the snap of his hips. 

And somewhere in the back of his mind Chip knows that Jeff was moaning during all of this, he knows but he’s sure that it was just to please him and he doesn’t want to be pleased right this second, not now. 

He stays inside of Jeff until his dick softens too much and slides out on its own. He gives him the condom and Jeff flushes it in the metal toilet, eyes bright, hair wild, lips still looking so kissable it feels cruel not to. Jeff comes back to angle his neck towards him and he puts his teeth in Jeff’s neck, sucks the salty skin between his lips, licks and worries and needs. He smells Jeff’s prison shampoo and sweat and sex between them and wraps his hands around Jeff’s spilled and sensitive dick again, for no reason but that he can, mimics the movement from before, tries if he can milk out just a drop more. He feels heady, and only stops when both sides of Jeff’s neck have love bites. Jeff needs those, after all. They are badges of honor. 

He cleans up with Jeff’s raspy grey towel and dresses again, every piece snapping back into place along with the closure of his belt. Baton. Keys. Radio. As always, Jeff seems sad that he is leaving, eyes cast downward while he pulls his clothes back on and Chip tells himself that that is because Jeff’s cellmates will return. They won’t rape him, of course, but there is much worse they can do. He feels fiercely empty, a pull of his chest towards Jeff, to stay. Instead he opens the door and only allows himself a last glimpse of Jeff the moment it falls shut between them, catches his longing eyes. “Until next time,” he says softly, to the door, to his shaking hands fumbling with the keys, and thinks ‘if I’m still alive, and if you are.’

 

 

 

 


End file.
